excuses, excuses

I'm running out of 'em.

Here's what I ate last weekend--let me see if I can encompass the enormity of my gorgefest:

Friday: not bad actually, but ate at least six crackers smeared with some creamy brie-like goat cheese and a salad with a chicken breast and chevre. I was bleating.

Saturday: two eggs and one piece ww toast in the morning. Saved myself for the afternoon mexican fiesta (authentic, to the T) and proceeded to drink about three glasses of sangria, eat two pieces of steak ranchera (one wrapped in a flour tortilla and one cut up and wrapped in homemade corn tortillas then smeared with guacamole and topped with black bean and corn salsa), one shrimp taco with cheese, numerous chips with salsa, and for my crowning achievement, a scoop of some butterfinger-laden cool whip extravaganza that tasted like candybar in a cloud. Oh, and then I had a beer.

Sunday: Up late, coffee, protein shake around noon and by 2:30 S and I are checking out a potential reception site called Buenos Aries Grille, which happens to have a pizza joint attached to it. We are, of course, hungry, and it's hot, so we duck into the joint, order a five cheese 12 inch (for our friend who is in from out of town and who thinks cheese is a major food group all by itself) , a pie for me (14 inch WHAT WAS I THINKING mozz, green olive, eggplant, onion I WAS CRAVING SALT, THAT'S WHAT) and a ham and cheese cubano/croissant for S. With fries. Oh and four empanadas: two spinach and cheese; two fresh mozz and fresh basil. And a diet coke. We are so fucked.

So we drop 40 bucks (did I mention the dulce de leche cookie that we just HAD to try?) and head home with enough food to feed a family of six. Our houseguest eats two pieces of his megamegacheese pizza and actually says "It's almost too much cheese." We take his temperature to make sure he's not coming down with something. I eat two pieces of my pie and I'm disappointed that the eggplant is actually marinated and haphazardly strewn across the top of the cheese, but I eat the pieces anyway. And chew through two empanadas.

Since we ate that huge meal at 3 p.m., and both S. and our houseguest proceeded to sack out until 7:30, we just kinda picked at dinner--I ate a nice barely-dressed salad, accompanied (of course) by another empanada and another piece of pizza, and then...well, by then, quite frankly, I wanted to puke.

So now that I have disclosed my sordid life of eating whatever whenever and filled you in on the details, I will also say that I started Monday with a bang (a quiet bang) and a new perspective. I would EAT LESS today. I would WORK OUT. I would stop at one serving. I would believe that change is possible. For the 2,398th time.

And yesterday I accomplished all of those things. The only thing that put a snag in the pant leg of my day was our houseguest (he leaves tomorrow thank god, because the man is skinny skinny and eats whatever the hell he wants all the time) and his offering of a slice of lemon poundcake (tiny, but still...) that I could not refuse. I mean, how rude would THAT be? Turns out I was able to stop at that one piece (I was offered another--S. took it) and Mr. Skinny ate the whole other half (granted it was a small bundt). Then we ate watermelon. Nice compromise. I did NOT have potato salad. I ate a small burger without the bun, one ear of corn (no butter) and some vegetarian baked beans. 10 points, which is a fair amount. But I'd also done 40 minutes on the elliptical at level 7 and really hauled ass, so it balanced out. Or maybe I'm just kidding myself.

Day two. Today. It's not so hot, so I'm planning a walk. I'm 60 oz of water into my day. I just finished lunch and I'm sated. I feel like a crack addict looking for a fix, 'cept I don't want rock: I want pasta. Maybe a donut. What's up with the donut? I NEVER eat donuts. But at the market last week, I picked up those tongs, grabbed a chocolate covered one and put it in the little wax paper bag. I picked up a few more items and then got in line. I stared at the donut in the cart as I waited for my turn at the check out. I spoke to the donut in my head. "I shouldn't buy you, Herr Donut. You're one spoke in my axis of evil." Silence. The woman in front of me in line was haggling with the checkout clerk, something about the price of cilantro. I was in a battle of wills with the donut bag. Picking it up, smelling the sugar, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, I did what I had to do: I nested it in the People magazine rack and never looked back.